A Distraction and an Eyeball
by fifthofnovember
Summary: "Seems your boyfriend lacks conviction." The words and their significance aren't lost on her. "He could have killed you too." Clint/Natasha friendship, Clint/Tony having a drink, wherein Clint tells Tony about his confrontation with Loki. T for violence, but the movie is probably worse in that regard, honestly.


_Special thanks to my Livejournal friend, Thom, who watched me slip back and forth between two realities in the process of writing this, and never called me crazy, mainly because he probably is too. _

_This started as flash!comment!fic and grew from there. And then next thing you know, you're sitting in an out of the way townie bar with a master assassin, and he wants to tell you something. _

_Post movie, took a few creative liberties with the order of things, tweaked a couple of scenes... you know how it is. Hope you enjoy. _

* * *

"Why didn't you do it?" Tony asks, turning himself sideways in the booth, stretching his legs in front of him and resting his head against the brick wall. Clint is trying to pretend he isn't nervous, but he's already subconsciously refused to sit with his back to the door, and he's spinning his coaster in front of him while his drink sweats a ring into the wooden table that might have been painted once, a long time ago. They're sitting upstairs because where else would they be, and Clint is watching two men downstairs play pool because they're terrible and that bow isn't the only thing he's good with. They look like locals, like the kind of guys who know something and who they probably don't want to know. Not that either of them has anything to worry about, but still. They're _trying_ to decompress.

Tony watches Clint watching because he's interesting when he's like this, but he's so obviously staring and he doesn't even know it, probably.

"Hey." Tony kicks him softly under the table and Clint jumps, because he realizes somebody could have snuck up on him. There aren't many who can do that, and not many times he'd allow it. "Welcome back. Another drink?"

"Yeah. Sure. Why not?"

The waitress comes over because this is exactly the kind of bar that has waitresses and not servers. Waitresses who wear slightly outmoded jeans and cheap costume jewelry and manage to make it look good. She returns shortly after because the place isn't crowded – places like this are never crowded – with their drinks and some baguettes and cheese that Tony thinks is remarkably upscale for a place like this. Not that he minds.

By now, Clint is twitchy as hell because he's twitchy _in_ anywhere.

"Actually..." He picks up his glass and finishes his drink in one swallow. "Let's get out of here." He stands up, grabs a baguette for the road between his teeth and shrugs his jacket on, an old, black leather bomber and Tony wonders what _that_ jacket has seen because old leather like that always has a story. He walks up to the bar, pays for their drinks and then strolls right past Tony, tapping him on the shoulder like maybe Tony hadn't heard him.

"Where?"

"I don't know. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just... walk. I'm thinking too much."

Then they're on the street, their shadows walking shoulder to shoulder in the near dark, Clint with his hands stuffed in his pockets looking like a regular guy and Tony dressed like he came out here to extort money. Now Tony's the twitchy one, although only just, because even though he doesn't know it, he absolutely _does_ know that Clint has a knife, somewhere, not because he thought he'd need to use it. He just has it because he _can_ use it.

They walk along, in step and silence, Tony listening to his shoes click on the pavement with his eyes low, and Clint with his on the teenaged couple walking arm in arm before Tony even sees them. Clint's much more in his element out here, where the motion and light (even though there's too much for his liking from street level) lets him see. He'd rather have the distraction to focus, no matter how ridiculous Tony or anyone else thinks it sounds, rather than sit and navel gaze and get lost in his own head. He doesn't particularly like it in there. Especially lately.

"So. Anyway." He glances at Tony, like he wants Tony's permission to continue, just in case the sound of his voice is intruding in Tony's headspace.

"Anyway." It's a mood Clint wants more than a place, if he's going to talk. Even though Tony has no idea where they hell they are, it seems like Clint knows, or maybe that's just because all these neighborhoods start to look the same the more of them you see. And they've both seen a lot.

"I almost _did_ do it."

"Almost?" The very word strikes Tony as odd, because he doesn't "almost" _anything_, and Clint certainly doesn't either.

"Yeah. I would have. If it wasn't for Natasha." Clint stops, runs a hand through his hair and lets it rest on the back of his neck, looks around. He looks up at the light and god _damn_ he hates that fake, orange sodium glow. It's almost insulting. He can't _see_ anything. He takes a step away from Tony, then two steps back and sits down on the bench with his elbows on his knees. Tony sits down too, but like he doesn't want to make too much noise, with one hip on the edge of the bench and waits.

* * *

The cell is small and square, and this one has no windows rather than being all windows. Clint, unlike Natasha, doesn't even try to sneak up on Loki. He wants Loki to _know_ he's there.

"Looks like your brother is running a little late." Loki just looks up with that smirk Clint has come to _detest_. "So we get to have a little chat. Just man to man."

"Need I remind you, Agent Barton," and Clint realizes that he suddenly hates the sound of his own name, "that only one of us is a man?"

"Finally, we're starting to see eye to eye."

"Since you mentioned it, I liked your baby blues much better."

"Yeah, well, I didn't. Blue's never really been my color."

"Why did you come here, _Agent Barton_?" He's sure Loki's just doing it now to see him bristle. He clenches and unclenches his left hand which is just_ itching_ for it. "Did you come here to kill me? Not much glory in shooting – what's the expression – a fish in a barrel?"

"There's not going to be any glory in your death. I didn't come here for glory. That was you, remember? Why don't you remind me how that worked out for you?"

"My glory isn't to be found here."

"Right, right. Asgard. King, betrayal. That line is getting really tired."

"Then state your business. You're boring me." Loki crosses his legs, leans back, crosses his arms over his chest and he's _still_ smirking.

"I haven't been sleeping too well lately."

"Oooooh. I'm so sorry to hear that, Agent Barton." One more time with that, and Clint thinks he's going to skip taking the shot, bend those bars with his bare hands, and choke Loki to death with his knee on his chest and his hands around his throat. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yeah. Hold still." Clint brings his hand up in front of him, flexes it a few times. "Although, I don't really _need_ you to. In fact, this might be even more fun if you don't."

"Clint!" He turns on his heel and _man_, how can Natasha always creep up on him like that? "What are you doing?"

He disregards her and turns to face Loki again because really, shouldn't it be obvious? To her, of all people.

"Clint, this isn't going to prove anything." He really wishes she'd stop talking, because it's distracting and it's spoiling his moment. "So you kill him. It doesn't change anything."

"It changes _everything_."

"Really? Does it? What does it change, huh? What does it undo? Does it bring Coulson back? Does it..."

He wheels on her like a panther, his blood boiling and he's not sure what he's angry about, or maybe he's angry about everything, but he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears and the rage is going to eat him alive if he doesn't make a move. "_It. Changes. Everything_." Natasha flinches because he's never yelled at her before, never _screamed_ at her like he is now. "I had a knife to your throat, Nat. I was going to kill you. _I would have killed you_."

"But you didn't."

"Easy to say that now, isn't it? Don't you get it? How can you trust me?"

"That wasn't you."

"It would have been my hands that cut your throat." His voice is icy now as he turns his back to her and he's digging his nails into his palm. Natasha realizes she much preferred him screaming.

She stands behind him, not so close as to crowd him, because she does trust him, except not now, now she doubts him just a little, but she wants her hand on his bow arm when he draws. If she's touching him, if she can feel what he feels, if she's connected to him someplace, she might be able to understand it, might be able to forgive him. Maybe. He stands there, shaking but not really, shaking inside but not out, she can _feel_ it, and of course he can make the shot, of _course_ he can, he could do it with his eyes closed...

Clint reaches behind him, the motion as natural to him as breathing, Loki is still smirking but Clint can't even see anymore, he's shooting on instinct which is all he needs, really. All he's ever needed.

Then Natasha can feel the tension go out of him, physically, ooze out onto the floor and slither away, as he puts the arrow back in the quiver.

Loki is stone faced and now Clint is smirking. "It's better this way. Now, no matter where you go, you'll always know you're only alive because I let you live. You don't deserve to be killed by an arrow off my bow. I have more respect for it than that."

He brushes past Natasha and out the door. She stands there, staring at Loki, thinking of all the ways it could have gone differently. How everything could have gone differently.

"Seems your boyfriend lacks conviction." The words and their significance aren't lost on her, and still have the same impish, sing-song, sickening tone, but for some reason, the smile has been wiped off his face.

"He could have killed you too," she mumbles over her shoulder as she walks out.

* * *

"So she didn't really stop you, did she?" It's just come to Tony's attention that his hip is really hurting from sitting in this position for so long, he's cold, and it's completely dark now.

"Actually, I think she did."

"You wish she hadn't?"

"I don't know, Stark." Clint stands up, brushes his pants off. "I don't know."


End file.
